Pete rummages in the ring binder that Trish inflicted on him when he arrived. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“Well, it’s in a warehouse in Watford, most of the way out to the M25. I didn’t even know we had a warehouse in Watford. It’ll take us three hours to get there and back by tube, so I suppose—”

“I brought the Vespa.” Pete diffidently jangles a bunch of keys. “Can you ride pillion?”

Vicars on vintage scooters; what is the world coming to? (I’m just glad I don’t have hemorrhoids.)

Pete has parked in an alley round the back of the New Annex, between two dumpsters full of non-office waste. It’s raining, and I’m glad I decided to wear a parka to work, even though it makes me look like a dork. He passes me a spare helmet and I’m busy fiddling with the chin strap when I get a peculiar feeling that I’m being watched.

I open an inner eye and whip my head around. There’s a startled hiss and a black bolt of lightning scoots under the nearer dumpster. It’s not a feeder, nor is it a human intruder. I gulp with relief. Green eyes flash at me from the shadows, then retreat into darkness.

“What’s up?” Pete asks, noticing my startle reflex.

“Just a stray cat.” Maybe feral. I need to stop jumping at shadows, I think. “Let’s go.”

I have heard that the second fastest way to get around central London is on two wheels. Well, if your range needs to encompass the entire area within the M25 orbital motorway, you either need Lance Armstrong’s prescription cabinet or a motor. Pete gives me a demonstration of the latter. We make it out to Watford in less than half an hour, faster than I could have managed even given a bicycle and access to the ley-line paths of power that thread the capital’s disused railways and cuttings. Unfortunately I also discover that riding pillion in the rain without leathers is a great way to get soaked to the skin and chilled, and while I don’t get car-sick or plane-sick I am quite capable of getting nauseous on the back of a scooter.

Nevertheless, Pete gets us there in miraculously short order. We dismount in a car park round the side of an anonymous-looking industrial unit with roll-ups, and I stumble dizzily towards the windowless door. There is a doorbell, and a small camera. I ring the bell and present my warrant card to the camera. After a moment, Pete remembers to pull out his shiny new ID. It doesn’t come with the special sauce yet, but at least it’ll get him in the door if he’s accompanied by an irresponsible adult.

“’Ooozare?”

“Bob Howard and Pete Wilson, Capital Laundry Services.”

“C’min.”